


Downfallen

by elennalore



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BDSM, Dominatrix, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Númenor, Oral Sex, Restraints, Vaginal Fingering, Whipping, past Annatar/Celebrimbor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27558580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elennalore/pseuds/elennalore
Summary: In the dungeons of Ar-Pharazôn, Mairon meets a dominatrix who eerily resembles Lúthien. He knows he deserves this.
Relationships: Tar-Míriel/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 14
Kudos: 24





	Downfallen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Númenor Week 2020, Day 6  
> Prompts: Tar-Míriel, Sauron in Númenor, Downfall

The halls of the royal palace were completely deserted during the late hours. Mairon was surrounded by elaborated art the Númenóreans, the kind of art they seemed to like so much. He walked proudly through the halls and adjacent corridors, certain that he wouldn't be disturbed on his way to his destination. There was a subtle shade around himself he had sung into existence before. In case he met someone, they wouldn't recognize him easily now.

The lone corridors and marble staircases led him on. By now, he knew the complex route by heart. Every time he found a letter with a royal seal on his bedside, he took the same route. There was a certain thrill in knowing what would wait for him at his destination.

Only at the door to the dungeons he let his glamour shatter. He didn’t dare to use a lot of his power in the presence of others, not while he was still a prisoner. Besides, it was not necessary. He knew the guards were waiting for him. They shivered slightly as they suddenly realized who stood before them, seeming to have appeared out of thin air.

“Wait, you’re the wizard!” a young man in the uniform of Queen’s special guard exclaimed. He spoke Adûnaic, of course. Zigûr, the wizard, that's how they called him here. He had had many names, and this was certainly not the worst of them. Nevertheless, the name felt foreign to him. A role that he must play, nothing more.

“I am,” he answered and gave a little smile. The young man’s companion winced. Mairon made a mental note that his smile had probably not been as innocent-looking as he had aimed it to be. He needed to practise more.

“We need to take you down there,” announced the man who had winced a moment before.

“I know.”

“You must come peacefully,” the younger guard said. He held manacles ready to be put around the prisoner’s wrists. _My wrists_ , Mairon thought. He had to remember he was the prisoner. It felt strange sometimes.

“Of course.” He held out his arms so that the guard could put manacles on him. The guards looked suspicious of his seemingly co-operative behaviour, but they were polite and didn't hurt him like some of the previous ones had done.

They took him down to the dungeons. Both of the guards were careful not to let him get behind their backs. One of them held an official sabre in his hand, just in case. The other carried a decorated lantern. They were very businesslike, but Mairon could still sense their fear. In other circumstances their roles would have been reversed, but this place was not Angband.

The King of Númenor didn't seem to find any real use for his prisoners. He just kept bothersome people away in his gaol. Many curious pairs of eyes stared at him through narrow door hatches as they walked by them. Mairon knew that among the King’s prisoners, he was a special case. Even during his first months in Númenor, when he was always kept locked up, his cell in the dungeons was comfortably separate from others, and a lot bigger, too.

His former cell was just where they were heading now. He hardly enjoyed being back there, but he didn’t have much choice in this matter. It was either there or not at all.

The cell in question was set away from the rest of the prisoners, and when they reached their destination, he couldn’t hear their shouting unless he tried to listen really carefully.

The guard pushed him roughly inside before he unlocked the manacles and pocketed them. They didn’t say a word as they locked the door behind them, leaving him alone. Mairon wondered if they had any idea why he was summoned back there. Hopefully not.

The room was big enough for him to take perhaps five steps before reaching the opposite wall. It was sparsely decorated, but clean and almost comfortable. On the bedside table there was a candle lantern and some nice incense burning. Other lanterns hanged from the ceiling. He took a familiar place in the corner, sat on a carved stone bench that reminded him of Aulë’s halls, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. There was another door leading to the locked cell. He had his eyes fixed on it. Not long after the guards left, the door opened, and he found himself facing Tar-Míriel, Queen of Númenor, at least in name.

“Your Majesty,” Mairon said meekly, and bowed his head.

“Stop calling me that, Gorthaur. You know what I am to you.” Her answer was in Sindarin, the forbidden language. She knew it was safe to speak elven-tongue there. No one would hear them, and he wouldn't tell anyone.

“Yes, Mistress,” he answered in the same language.

Tar-Míriel was short in stature compared to most other Númenoreans he had met. She had a silver circlet in her slightly curly dark hair, and her skin was unnaturally white, as if she didn't get enough sunlight. Her black dress had ornamental silver decorations on its wide hem. She held a riding crop in her hand like it was the Sceptre of Númenor.

“What are you waiting for, Gorthaur? Take your clothes off.”

She sat down on the stone bed, and gave a meaningful glance at him. It was odd to see her sitting so casually on the same bed where Mairon had tried to sleep on those first horrible nights in Númenor. He wasn't even allowed a blanket to cover himself in this cold and hostile place. Now, Tar-Míriel was sitting on a pleasant sheepskin rug she had ordered to be brought to this special cell as soon as their secret meetings had started. Well, it was an improvement.

Mairon felt her eyes on him as he took off first his long coat, then his tunic. After that he hesitated, but when Tar-Míriel frowned at him he sighed and took off the rest of his clothes.

“I’m all yours, my Queen,” he said and knelt down gracefully, but he couldn’t quite hide the mocking tune in his voice.

“Shut up, you evil spirit. I don't want to hear your filthy voice unless I ask you a question or otherwise give you a permission to speak. Now, come closer. I want to study you.”

Still on his knees, he approached the Queen, trying to avoid eye contact as much as he could. It was difficult. She looked too much like Lúthien to him. Even her voice was similar, although weaker, but there were still traces of her ancestral mother’s power left in her voice, especially when she spoke Sindarin.

“Oh, look at you. Such a pretty little thing.” Her fingers were touching his face, combing his golden hair in a possessive way. Suddenly Tar-Míriel pulled his hair, forcing Mairon’s head forward. He knew what he was expected to do, but he remained passive for the time being.

“Do you miss your Master?”

The question surprised him.

“Yes.” It was an honest answer. She deserved it.

A sudden strike of the crop hit his bare ass, making him cry out.

“You are such an evil thing, servant of Morgoth. I want to make you suffer.”

Another strike, a little lower than the previous one. This time Mairon just bit his lip. She didn’t use full force, for she was just warming up.

“I know you have done such horrible deeds. And now you will pay. You’ll do some good deeds for a change. Lick your Mistress, and make her come. Do it now, you pitiful monster.”

She quickly raised the hem of her dress to her waist. She had clearly planned all this for she didn’t wear any underwear. Without shame she opened her thighs and pushed her hips towards Mairon’s already lowered face. Mairon didn’t have a lot of experience with women – watching what some orcs liked to do with _elleth_ prisoners in Angband hardly did count – but Tar-Míriel was a patient teacher. Now she guided him to the place that gave her most pleasure, and the music of her little ah’s and oh’s told him if his tongue did its work right. Yes, he was a quick learner.

Tonight, Mairon felt brave enough to diverge from the plan Tar-Míriel had in her mind. He raised his head from the task given to him, waiting for the command to continue that didn’t come. When he looked at Tar-Míriel, her eyes were hazy, the crop almost dropping from her hand. Very slowly, he put first one, then another finger inside her, something his mistress hadn’t let him do before. This time, she didn’t stop him, although she took a surprised breath as he entered. She was wet and hot and somehow soft in a way that was foreign to Mairon. He found a rhythm that seemed to give her most pleasure. Then he started rubbing her inner thighs with his other hand.

At that, her riding crop hit him sharply.

“You tickle me! Back to work, Gorthaur! Use your tongue, or should I order it removed?”

Her words were cruel and made him abruptly stop what he was doing. There were limits, he reminded himself. Submissively, he bowed his head again and soon found the desired spot that made Tar-Míriel moan in such a delicious way. He kept his two fingers inside her although it was difficult to move them in this position. Her moaning intensified, and he could feel her muscles involuntarily convulsing when her orgasm peaked. He envied her pleasure.

The fearlessness of Tar-Míriel hadn’t stop astonishing him. In the moment of her climax she left herself vulnerable to Mairon’s attack, but either she had to know that he wouldn’t risk his position by harming her or she just didn’t care. Or perhaps she understood that Mairon needed their sessions, too. And next would be his turn.

“Kneel on the floor,” Tar-Míriel said breathlessly when she was recovered from her orgasm. When he obeyed, she stood up and came closer to study his _fana_.

It was a _fana_ Mairon had specially chosen to wear when he understood that he couldn’t win the mighty army of Ar-Pharazôn by military force. People call him the Deceiver. Well, this was the skin of the Deceiver, beautiful to look at, not too intimidating, silky golden hair, soft skin and bright eyes. Still amber-coloured, though. He could have changed the colour of his eyes to innocent blue of Eönwë’s, but that would have been too much even for him. Incidentally, it was the same _fana_ he used when he lived in Ost-in-Edhil.

But he didn’t want to think that now.

Tar-Míriel was studying his body like he was her property, and from a certain point of view that was just what he was.

“You skin is perfect. No scars whatsoever. Still, I have understood that my king’s soldiers didn’t refrain from severe violence when you were captured.”

The memory of it made him shudder. “No Mistress, they didn’t. They broke some bones and cut me and left me bleeding. But I can heal myself.”

“That’s a useful ability,” she admitted. “I would like to have that, too. Perhaps you are more powerful than my husband thinks. I bet you could escape this country if you really made an effort.”

She was too close to the truth. Mairon felt uncomfortable, but fortunately she dropped the subject with feigned indifference.

“Anyway, I think you enjoy submitting yourself to me too much to escape.” She brought her hand to his semi flaccid cock, her firm grip stroking him hard almost against his will. In the end, Mairon allowed himself to relax and enjoy her touch. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine her firm but gentle touch belonging to Tyelpë.

A hit of the riding crop on his ass returned him back to the cell in Númenor.

“Morgoth’s whore! A wanton little being!” She cupped his chin and made him look in her eyes, terrible like Lúthien’s. “Gorthaur the Cruel, you will not get pleasure, only pain.”

Thinking of Tyelpë’s delicate hands and what they could do had made Mairon’s cock aching hard, and although he craved for release Tar-Míriel had every right to punish him for that. He trusted her judgement more than Manwë’s.

“Please, Mistress, do it.”

“So you admit you have sinned?”

The memory of Tyelpë’s agonizingly long death haunted him again. “Yes,” he whispered, shivering as Tar-Míriel touched his shoulder. Almost gently, she guided him to rest his upper body against the stone bed and its sheepskin rug. His cock was still hard, but he knew better than to touch himself.

“I’m going to restrain you,” she said in a low voice.

“You’re the Queen, you can do whatever you want.”

She didn’t say anything to that, but Mairon heard her opening the chest beside the bed and rummaging through the contents. A moment later, she returned with a bundle of jute rope. He let her tie his wrists together and fasten the rope to a rusty metal ring embedded in the wall in front of him. His arms were stretched up, leaving his back and ass exposed. He stayed kneeling down, his upper chest bent over the sheepskin rug. There was a certain thrill to be there, waiting for her next move.

He was waiting for the sound of the whip and her first hit, but Tar-Míriel sat beside him on the sheepskin instead, her warm hand finding his cock again. He gave a moan of pleasure despite everything and pushed against her hand.

“Now now,” she said, keeping his lower back steady with her other hand. “You’re so hard, you must really like this, Gorthaur.” She continued stroking him faster. “Are you thinking of your evil Master?”

There was a pause before Mairon managed to answer. “No, Mistress.”

“Well, who is it? It can’t be me, that much I can see. Whose hand do you imagine when I do this?” Her grip was harder now, and Mairon gave little noises and felt almost too vulnerable, but at that moment it didn’t matter.

“He was an elf,” he confessed. He hoped Tar-Míriel wouldn’t stop now. She was touching him almost like Tyelpë had done. There was none of the roughness of his Master in that touch, no, they couldn’t even be compared. And still he was yearning for both.

“An elf, is that so? What happened to him? Oh, let me guess, Gorthaur, you probably killed him.”

Her words hit him like a whip, and he couldn’t talk. He only wished for a release.

Tar-Míriel laughed a mirthless laugh, her fingers tightening around his cock, moving faster. He knew he was coming, there it was, he groaned and felt his semen surging out and onto the floor.

Suddenly he felt cold and very alone.

“Gorthaur the Cruel,” Tar-Míriel mocked him. “I knew I was right. Look at you now.”

She changed her position, and before Mairon could get ready she hit his ass with her riding crop. It was a stingy feeling, not too painful, but he could feel she really wanted to give him pain this time. And he deserved it.

“Please, harder,” he muttered to her.

“Stop talking.” But she hit harder this time, and continued intensifying her strikes on his ass until he let out a groan.

Mairon knew he needed this pain, and he was relieved that the queen didn’t stop when they reached his pain threshold. He immersed himself in the feeling of being on her mercy, sometimes moving involuntarily against the ropes, sometimes moaning.

But there was no retreat for him. In the end, Tyelpë’s face was again looking at him – not with accusation as he righteously should, but with that misplaced trust that had doomed him in the first place.

Mairon’s eyes filled with tears. It was neither pain nor humiliation, he knew.

Tar-Míriel must have sensed something for she stopped her hand mid-air.

“What is it, Gorthaur?” She sounded almost worried all of a sudden.

Mairon took a deep breath, hoping that she wouldn’t notice those stupid streaks of tears on his face. If only his hands were free, he would have wiped them away already.

“Don’t stop!” he said sharply, making her take a step back despite his vulnerable position. “I want you to really hurt me, to make me scream!”

It would be the only way to eliminate the other kind of tears.

Tar-Míriel stayed silent for some time. He hadn’t asked her to go so far before, and he was almost sure that she would refuse his brutal wish. But in the end, it was evident she was of Lúthien’s blood.

“It would be my pleasure, Gorthaur,” she said in a menacing tone, “to make you pay the price for your deeds.” Mairon didn’t dare to breathe as she moved closer again.

Her riding crop landed on his ass, then on his thighs, again and again, and endless torture. His skin had to be red as flame by now. Mairon surrendered to the pain. Oh, she really didn’t hold back this time. And it was good. There was no room for thoughts in his mind any more. A big wave of rapture hit him, and for a while he was no one.

* * * * *

Tar-Míriel was very kind and careful when she untied his slightly shaking hands.

“You are almost human,” she commented, running her finger along his arm as she speaked. “You can also feel pain. Who could have guessed?”

Mairon didn’t say anything. For a while he had been somewhere else, he didn’t want to chat with her now.

“Who’s Tyelpë?”

Her sharp question snapped him back to reality, making his heart miss a beat. Why was she asking that? She shouldn’t know that name!

“Yes, I can see now that the name means something to you. When you were crying _Forgive me Tyelpë_ before, I wasn’t sure if I had heard right. Great Gorthaur, showing signs of repentance! That’s unheard of.”

Her cruel words twisted the knife in his heart.

“You are mistaken,” Mairon managed to say.

_I don’t think so_ , her eyes said as she turned to look him one last time before she left through her private door.

Her look promised there would be the next time. And oh, how much he needed it already.


End file.
